


I've Got You To Let Me Down

by terminaltongues



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Partying, Protective Sheriff Stilinski, References to Drugs, Roommates, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:54:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24673429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terminaltongues/pseuds/terminaltongues
Summary: “Stop coming to get me,” Stiles murmurs. Derek wishes he would open his eyes.“If I don’t then who will?” Derek asks softly.“Just stop.” His words are still mostly slurred.Stiles goes to college, swearing to leave Beacon Hills behind. He never expects Derek to follow.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 14
Kudos: 150





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Let Me Down by Jorja Smith

It’s odd to think that Derek knew Stiles before. Before the drinking and the partying and on the nights he’s feeling particularly self-loathing, the drugs. Derek does his best to stay out of his way, to not interfere when he brings boys or girls (or both) home to the apartment. He knows Stiles is loud on purpose as if he can scream Derek out of his life. As if Derek will disappear in the morning. But it’s been a year and he still hasn’t left. 

Derek hates it, too. Thinking of Stiles as if he’s been split into two. The Stiles he knew before everything fell apart around them and the Stiles after. He hates thinking this way because it makes it seem as if Stiles is no longer a whole person anymore. 

Stiles is still a whole person, Derek reminds himself as he piles the dirty dishes into the sink. He’s just not always recognizable. Not the same person. 

“I told you to stop doing my dishes,” a voice says from behind him, cold and rough with sleep. 

“They’ve been sitting for days.” 

“So?” Stiles’ voice is clipped. This is a familiar argument, almost comforting on the tongue. 

“So, they reek,” Derek explains calmly. 

“That’s not your problem.”

“It is as long as I have a nose.”

Derek still hasn’t turned around but he can practically feel Stiles bristle. 

“I told you not to touch my stuff.” Stiles tries to pass his anger off as indifference annoyance, but Derek knows better. He’s been in Stiles shoes. He knows what it is to feel so angry you could burn the world down around you. He sighs, gently sets the now-clean plate on the rack to dry, and turns around. 

Stiles has grown into himself. What once was lanky is now lean, what once was bony is muscled and strong. He is attractive in a way that makes Derek’s heart ache. What once was soft and warm is now sharp and cold like a marble statue. His eyes are the only golden thing remaining about him, and they cut into Derek with steely contempt. 

“I wouldn’t touch your stuff if you would clean up after yourself.”

Stiles’ thin-lipped grimace turns into a leer. 

“No one is making you live here. The door is always open.”

Derek sighs again which only seems to irritate Stiles further. He turns back to his dishes.

“You’re going to be late for your lecture if you don’t leave soon.” A pause. “Breakfast is on the table.” 

Derek waits to see if Stiles will draw this out but all he gets is a quiet huff and the sound of the door slamming behind him. 

. . . 

It’s a big campus. Yet, somehow Stiles has talked his way into the pockets and pants of all the right people to build himself a reputation of sorts. He was famous, in part, for getting shit-faced almost every weekend and still managing to hold a 4.0 GPA. He is fun, loud, and charismatic. _Easy._

Derek could easily live off of his family’s money for the rest of life, but it feels wasteful to not put his law degree to good use so he does contract law for startups in San Francisco. He hates being away, but he mostly chooses his own hours anyways. Stiles is usually pretty easy to watch as long as the sun is still up and it’s not the weekend. But, as he’s said to Stiles a thousand times, he’s not here to babysit him. Although, there is a third reason why Stiles has risen the ranks of gossip on campus. 

“That’s him,” a voice whispers across the cafe where Derek is working. He could work in the quiet and privacy of his own home, not to mention in the comfort of his own wi-fi network that didn’t randomly quit on him like this shitty cafe did but Derek is apparently a masochist. “I saw him last Friday at Todd’s party. He came out of nowhere and just scooped Stiles up and made off with him.”

“ _T_ _hat’s_ him? He’s like thirty.”

“I _know_. Apparently he never says anything, just comes in, picks him up and leaves.” 

“He’s like his guardian angel except he’s wearing a leather jacket and has a jaw I could cut myself on.” 

“And not to mention—”

Derek turns to glare at the girls and smiles when they gasp and duck their heads. 

“Oh my god. He heard us. There’s no way he heard us!”

“Stop looking!”

There’s some whispered hissing, the scooting of a chair and clinking of glasses and the cafe returns to a quiet haven. Derek smiles and sips his coffee. 

. . . 

Derek knows he shouldn’t. It won’t do him any good. He knows it, but he can’t help it. He pulls out his phone. 

_Do you want to get lunch?_

Derek waits a minute until the little dots appear at the bottom of his screen. Stiles’ reply comes swiftly. 

_No_. 

_I’ll pay._

The dots return, hovering longer this time. Derek smiles slightly. He should really leave Stiles alone. Midterms are coming up and genius or not, Stiles could use the extra study time. But Derek can’t help it. He gets lonely around this time, when the Bay Area remains stagnant in its slightly cloudy but just pleasant enough weather. He misses the dramatic reds and oranges of New York. He misses the receding heat of Beacon Hills as the air turned cool with the approaching rain. The dots settle. 

_No_. 

_Did you eat the breakfast I packed?_

A pause and then as if begrudging:

_yes._

Derek will count that as a win. 

_I’m glad._

No response. 

. . . 

To the rest of the world, Stiles is as charming, funny, and friendly as he has always been. Derek can hear him laughing and the deep rumbling of other voices on the other side of the apartment door. It’s a rambunctious noise, the kind that Scott could elicit with the upwards quirk of an eyebrow alone.

Stiles blunders through the door moving in the spastic way that used to define him, as if always on the cusp of collapse. The smile lingers on his face even as his eyes land on Derek flicking through channels on the couch as if Stiles momentarily forgot that Derek is the bane of his existence. It quickly slips from his face, and the cool disinterested mask falls into place. 

“You’re back early.” 

Derek eyes the clock. 4:15 pm. 

“Not a lot of work today.” It’s not technically true. If he’d made the journey into the city there would have been plenty of work to keep him busy from now until next week. But, Stiles makes a point not to ask about the details of Derek’s work or life in general. Stiles makes a noncommittal noise and then stalks to his room. 

He reemerges around 9 pm. Derek looks up, shaking off the drowsiness that has settled like sand over his skin. 

“Where are you going?”

Stiles pointedly doesn’t look at him.

“Out.”

Derek wants to ask where, but he can tell by the increase of Stiles’ heart rate that it would just lead to a useless argument. That, and he could tell that Stiles’ had already been drinking in his room. Derek’s fists clench. He wants to remove the ‘hidden’ stash from under Stiles’ bed but he imagined that if Stiles knew Derek was rummaging through his things the ensuing fight might not be one Derek would know how to recover from. 

He tries to stay calm.

“Call me if you need me to come get you.” 

“I don’t need you,” Stiles' voice holds a fragile quality that only alcohol can seem to elicit. 

“Call anyways,” Derek says softly. 

Stiles glares but it’s glassy. Derek hates when he goes out like this. Hates it but says nothing as Stiles buttons up his coat and sweeps out the doors. 

…

The call comes around three am. The shrill ring is a familiar tone. Derek’s body groans as he sits up and blearily turns on his bedside lamp. He answers the phone. 

“Hello?” He croaks. 

There’s heavy breathing on the other end. 

“Hello?” Derek repeats with more authority. He clears his throat. 

“Is this… Derek?”

Derek’s cell phone is lodged carefully between his neck and shoulder as he pulls himself from bed and begins dressing. 

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Uh, Eliot--”

Derek frowns. He doesn’t remember an Eliot. Not that Stiles tells him names, but he’s never been called by one before. 

“Where’s Stiles?”

The air in the kitchen is cool and Derek shivers slightly as he pulls a jacket and then thinks better and grabs an oversized sweatshirt from the closet and a wool scarf for good measure. 

“Stiles is fine, it's just his phone kept dinging and—” The man, Eliot, speaks syrupy slow as if his tongue was buffering. 

“Address,” Derek says slowly. “What’s your address?”

“761 Everlane Dr,” comes the slow drawl. Then, as if an afterthought, “Stiles is fine. We’ve got everyone under control.”

 _Everyone_ , not everything. 

“Tell Stiles I’m coming.” 

“Oh, I would but he’s actually napping right now.”

Right. Derek sighs. 

“I’ll be there in ten.”

...

The party of the week turns out to be at a Co-Op near downtown. The windows gleam with lava lamps and string lights and colorful flags and posters. It looks like a child’s drawing of a house where all the windows are filled in with whatever color crayon happened to be on hand. Derek wonders briefly if Stiles was sober enough to notice it by the time he made it up the stairs of the three-story house. 

He finds Stiles shirtless and passed out on a spongy green couch in the basement. Two girls sit next to him on the couch obliviously making out. Derek clears his throat and the girls split, a trail of saliva tying them together. They both giggle before turning to Derek. 

“Are you Derek?” 

Derek nods and makes a gruff noise. 

The girl closest to Stiles pats his leg. Stiles doesn’t stir. 

“Eliot said you were coming. We were watching him. Don’t worry.”

_Don’t worry._

It wasn’t the girls Derek was worried about. It wasn’t even Eliot or the powdery and sticky basement floor littered with smashed cans, cigarette buds, and broken beer bottles. Stiles snuffled in his sleep and shifted so that his face was lying off the edge of the couch. Even asleep, Derek could see the exhaustion hanging beneath Stiles’ closed eyes. He looked sallow and gaunt, not that the dim basement lighting helped. 

“Are you ok?” The girl on the far end of the couch touches Derek lightly on the wrist. Derek blinks. He hadn’t even noticed her get up. He had been staring. 

“I’m going to take him home,” he says quietly. 

The girls nod. They don’t seem to particularly care that Derek has made no effort to establish his relationship with Stiles. Derek’s not even sure they know who Stiles is. Derek wonders if anyone in this house really knows who Stiles is. Always the friend of a friend. Always slipped in. Always carried out. 

He pulls Stiles upright, gently wrestles him into the sweatshirt and wraps the scarf around his exposed neck before adjusting him on his back. He’s exceptionally dead weight. Derek grunts as he stands and finds his footing. The girls watch the ordeal with interested eyes while sipping from their beer cans. Stiles murmurs against his shoulder which Derek takes as a good sign. 

The girls lift their cans in salute as Derek trudges up the basement steps. The partygoers, half-naked and blazed out of their minds cheer as Derek pases through the foyer. Derek smiles tightly, and then they’re out. 

…

Despite his strength, it takes an hour to walk back to the apartment. Around the forty minute mark, Stiles begins to stir. He feels Stiles’ body tense up as he awakens but then slumps as if to pretend to go back to sleep. Derek’s breath is slightly labored at this point and at four am, he’s not really in the mood to talk. 

When they finally reach the front steps Stiles makes a show of waking up and slipping off Derek’s back. Derek, like a reflex, grabs on to Stiles to make sure he doesn’t stumble to the ground and concuss himself. 

“Dontchme,” Stiles slurs. It’s hard to take him seriously when he’s delirious and wrapped up in a huge sweatshirt and scarf, but Derek raises both his arms to show he means no harm. His shoulders ache slightly from the walk. 

Stiles stares at Derek. He doesn’t seem to have the brain to do much else. His gaze flickers lazily to the door for a moment before he glances down at the sweatshirt he’s wearing. He tugs on it loosely. 

“My keys,” he murmurs. 

“You can have my spare.”

Derek has a stash of spares in his desk drawer. He thinks Stiles knows this. 

He unlocks the door and Derek withholds the urge to sigh at another night of lost sleep. Stumbling, Derek is able to guide him to his bedroom. Stiles all but collapses on the bed face first. Derek gently unwinds the scarf so that he won’t choke himself in his sleep and pulls off Stiles’ shoes and socks before gently tucking him beneath the covers and sheets of his unmade bed.

Derek gently turns Stiles over to his side and places a bucket beside the bed—just in case he needs to vomit in a few hours. He looks down at Stiles and—just—he just allows himself a moment. He reaches down to brush the hair that has fallen into his eyes.

“Stop.”

His hand freezes. Stiles’ eyes are closed. Derek pulls it back. 

“Stop coming to get me,” Stiles murmurs. Derek wishes he would open his eyes. 

“If I don’t then who will?” Derek asks softly. 

“Just stop.” His words are still mostly slurred. 

“Stiles,” Derek whispers, gentle. 

Stiles’ face scrunches up. 

“I don’t want to see you. I don’t want you to come get me. I want it to stop.” 

Derek reaches down and brushes the hair from his scrunched up eyes. They flash open and glare at him but he doesn’t push the hand away. 

“Why are you doing this Stiles?” 

Derek strokes his cheek and his heart aches for the man lying in front of him. 

Stiles closes his eyes. 

“Just stop, It’s not worth it,” he mutters. “It’s not worth it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as i’m concerned ‘the sheriff’ is a perfectly valid first name.

Things weren’t always like this. 

Things in Beacon Hills weren’t exceptional, but they had been getting on well enough. Stiles was in his senior year when a new flavor of bad washed into town. At first no one knew what to think of it. Who had ever heard of a pack of wraiths? A pack of sadistic soul-sucking wraiths that could take the form of deceased loved ones at that? 

Stiles and his dad were too far gone before they could get out. It was his mother, after all, that he saw calling to him, asking him if he was alright like she used to. Telling him things were going to be ok. 

Derek was no better. On a good day, he felt haunted by all the loss he’d suffered. But this. Being trapped in the Hale house for a week with apparitions of everyone he’d lost. That was more than he could handle. 

Everyone was too busy being haunted by their own ghosts to realize what was going on. It was Malia who finally ended it. She got through to Scott who was being haunted by Allison. She had been a coyote for so long that psychological pain like this—like her humanity—could be shut off. She knew what she had to do before it was too late. 

And it was almost too late. By the time they made it to Stiles, the Sheriff was on the cusp of death. Stiles was standing by, motionless with this dead look in his eyes. When Derek had busted down the door, Malia and Scott in tow, he didn’t even glance up from the thing that was sucking his father’s soul from his body like a dementor.

Derek will never forget the dazed look in his eyes, the euphoric glaze of whatever that  _ thing _ was promising Stiles as it slowly killed his father. Even as it was happening, Derek was sure it would pass. He was sure they’d be bruised and battered and maybe a little more traumatized than usual, but they’d all get through it. 

Then Stiles’ father died. 

At least for a moment. They’d gotten him to the hospital just in time for his heart to stop. Derek was at Stiles' side when it happened. Melissa rushed in just in time with a defibrillator, but the damage had been done—at least, in Stiles’ eyes.

Sheriff finally pulled through and started his way to a slow but steady recovery, but Stiles wasn’t the same after. 

. . .

No one spoke of it. The thing about Beacon Hills was that it didn’t give any of them time to breathe before it was shoving some new type of nasty down everyone’s throats. Senior year slipped by and college applications were submitted, but no one ever brought up the way something terrible had shifted in Stiles that night. 

Derek had never been good with words, and he wasn’t suddenly an expert when he needed to be, but he knew the look in Stiles’ eyes. If he didn’t do something, it would stick with him for the rest of his life. Even if he did something, it still might never go away. 

At the end of the year, the pack threw a party for all the seniors. Lydia was headed off to MIT, and Stiles would drive the few hours away to settle in at Berkeley. They were the only two of the pack who were really leaving. Scott had his claws dug into Beacon Hills, and Derek knew that the Alpha wasn’t going to let it go anytime soon. Some spirits couldn’t be broken. 

It had seemed, at that moment, as if the door was wide open. The thing was, when Derek imagined Stiles walking out of Beacon Hills, he knew dead in his heart that he wouldn’t come back. 

“You must be proud,” Derek had said as he’d toasted with the Sheriff at the party. Melissa had gotten a cake and streamers and they’d set it up in Stiles’ backyard. The recent graduates were taking photos and cackling as they flipped through a stack of yearbooks from the past four years. 

The Sheriff smiled wanly and took a long drag from his beer. His newly purchased wooden cane sat across his lap. 

“It’s bittersweet,” he said. “I don’t think we’ll see him for a while.” The man looked better, despite the limp and tired look in his eyes. No one wanted to say it, but it was clear he’d lost a few years even if he’d managed to pull through with his life. 

“He’ll be back,” Derek said, careful to keep his voice calm. Even though the man couldn’t hear his heartbeat, he was surprisingly good at detecting lies. 

“If you know my son as well as I think you do, you know he won’t be. He has this idea in his head that he’s at fault. He’s always been a problem solver. He’ll always try to take out the variables that he thinks are the reasons for things going wrong. But somehow he’s gotten it in his mind that he’s the problem. So, he’s removed himself from the equation.” 

“He’ll have to come back over the break. Over summer.” 

Sheriff had shrugged. For a moment, a terribly sad look came over his face, and Derek was worried the man was going to cry. He wouldn’t know what to do then. 

“We’ll see.” 

Derek hadn’t known what to say. Except. Except the door was wide open for him too. He shouldn’t say it, but the world had been so bleak lately, and Derek didn’t want to watch Stiles wither away. Worse, Derek didn’t want to watch Stiles disappear only for his body to wash ashore years later.

“I have offers,” he said quietly.

The Sheriff looked up.

“Pardon?”

“In San Francisco. I have work there. I could go live there and uhm, check up on him.”

Surprise and another unidentifiable emotion colored the Sheriff’s face. 

“Is that,” he cleared his throat, “a wolf thing?” 

“What?”

“Since he’s in the pack or…”

“No it’s not a wolf thing, I just....” Derek had never been good with words. He stared at the Sheriff helplessly. 

“Do you have…?”

“Yes,” he breathed out.

The conversation was almost too painful to have out loud.

“You would leave Beacon Hills—even with everyone here?”

“Scott has it under control and Malia is the best second in command that I have ever seen. I wouldn’t be far, and I could always visit.”

“So,” Sheriff seemed to be mulling over his words, “it’s not a pack thing?”

“No,” Derek admitted, “it’s a Stiles thing.”

The Sheriff fixed him with a heavy look. 

“How long has it been a Stiles thing?” he asked carefully. 

Derek smiled ruefully. It was better when the questions were simple like this. Saying it then lifted something off his chest as if the words were always there waiting to be freed. 

“Since I met him.” 

“Is it...always like that?” 

“It is for me,” he said softly. It might be a Derek thing. It had been like this with Paige too. Not the exact sentiment but the same intensity. Derek hadn’t been able to recognize it with Stiles at the time since it was buried so deep beneath his grief and anger when they first met. 

“I see,” the Sheriff said. He took another drag of his beer, and Derek tried not to twitch. Despite everything he wanted, opening up in the lightest still made him feel like a live wire. It was clear the Sheriff was parsing through this new set of information, but he couldn’t hide the hammering of his heart from Derek. 

“I don’t think he’ll take it well,” the Sheriff said at last. 

“I know,” Derek agreed. 

“But I think…” he took in a shaky breath. “But it would be nice to know there’s someone looking out for him.” He turned to Derek and looked him dead in the eye. “Can you promise me that you’ll look out for him?”

At the time, Derek hadn’t hesitated. Even if he’d known what was to come, he still wouldn’t have. He gave the Sheriff a clear nod.

“I promise.”

. . .

Stiles blossomed like a rose during his freshman year and grew the social life of one too. He didn’t even realize Derek had followed him to the city until Stiles bumped into him at a cafe. It never would have happened except Derek had been trying to talk down a hysterical Malia over the phone and had stopped paying attention for just a moment. 

“Derek?”

Stiles was standing, face torn between shock and horror at the fact that the leather jacket-wearing werewolf was sitting in a cafe with a stack of files, a briefcase, and a laptop propped open like he’d just walked off the set of Suits. 

“Stiles,” Derek said, albeit a little dumbly. It wasn’t like he didn’t expect them to run into each other at some point, he just wasn’t prepared for it at that very moment. 

“Don’t  _ Stiles _ me.” Stiles sat aggressively in the chair opposite Derek. “What are you doing here? Why do you look all...?” He waved at Derek’s buttoned up attire. 

“I work in SF,” Derek said, keeping his voice even. 

“The fuck you do,” Stiles snapped. “I mean it, what are you doing here? Is something wrong? Is it my dad?” Stiles’ voice trembled just a hair.

“No, you’re dad is fine.”

Stiles visibly calmed. 

“So what? San Francisco is the only place hiring?” 

Derek raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong with me working in San Francisco?”

“There’s nothing  _ wrong _ with it,” Stiles said defensively. “It’s just. A strange coincidence.” 

Maybe Derek shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe he should’ve let Stiles think nothing of it. Maybe he should have gotten up and left. But he didn’t. 

“Well, it’s not a complete coincidence. I mean, you’re here,” Derek said, trying to keep his inflection even. Stiles stiffened and for some reason, that compelled Derek to keep speaking. “And your dad knows I’m here. Scott, too.”

“So you’re here to babysit me?” Now Stiles sounded angry. Derek tried to backtrack.

“I really do work in the city.”

“Yeah, and you just happen to live in the same town as I do and go to the same cafes as me. Have you been watching me? Did my dad put you up to this?”

“No, Stiles. I’m just here for work.”

“You could work anywhere you want.”

Derek sighed. “I want to work here.” 

“Don’t you have a life?” Stiles snapped, and Derek wasn’t really expecting the anger. He anticipated some confusion and maybe a little resentment, but the sharp point of Stiles’ words threw him. 

“What?”

“Seriously, Derek. You can’t think of anything better than to follow me around like some kicked puppy.”

“Stiles—” Derek started, but Stiles didn’t give him the space. 

“I don’t care. Whatever it is, keep it to yourself. I have class,” he muttered before storming out the door. 

Derek watched him go in confusion.

. . .

The run-in sat poorly with Derek. All this time hovering around, waiting to be of use, always just in case. It was like an itch he couldn’t help but scratch. He texted Stiles his address. Now that the cat was out of the bag, he might as well make sure Stiles knew how to contact him and where to go if he needed someone. 

_ Who is this? _

Ok, maybe Derek deserved that. 

_ You didn’t save my number? _

When Derek got no response, he typed:

_ It’s Derek. You can come by anytime you want. If you need anything, let me know. No questions asked.  _

Stiles didn’t respond

. . .

Derek thought they might go the rest of the year without seeing each other until one night in April. A pounding at his door woke him up at 1:00 am. He opened it and came face-to-face with Stiles draped off the shoulder of a girl he didn’t recognize. 

Stiles smelled  _ wrong _ . He smiled when his gaze finally met Derek’s, but it was unfocused and his pupils were dilated. 

“Stiles?” Derek asked cautiously. Stiles didn’t respond. The girl adjusted to hold him up a bit better. 

“He’s not all here right now,” she apologized.

“What’s wrong with him?” Derek all but spat. 

“I think someone slipped him something,” she said, voice exhausted. “He said he was looking for Tums, but I know the boys were experimenting with stuff upstairs. Molly, I think.” She slumped again under Stiles’ weight, and Derek didn't hesitate to step forward and pull Stiles to him.

Stiles fell hard, his head knocking against Derek’s chest, but Derek barely noticed. He was too busy seeing red at the thought of Stiles alone at a party looking for something to cure his stomachache only to get fucking drugged by some irresponsible assholes. 

“I wanted to take him back to the dorms or maybe the health center, but he insisted on coming here,” the girl explained. She was looking at Derek now, curiosity peeking through the exhaustion. Derek wondered how many people she’d looked after that night. It stopped him from yelling all the profanities stuck at the back of his throat. That, and the way Stiles was clinging to him. 

He wasn’t even sure Stiles’ had saved his number, let alone his address. 

“I’ve got him,” he said at last. She seemed relieved to pass him off to someone else. , Derek had dealt with a lot of fucked up shit, but, for some reason it was this—Stiles pawing at his chest, giggling into his neck that threw him out of his element. His brain was a cacophony of panic and he couldn’t get that damned chemical smell out of his nose. 

He thanked the girl and wrestled Stiles into his apartment and onto the couch. Stiles flopped backwards, content to stare at the ceiling. 

“Stiles?” Derek asked cautiously. Now that Stiles wasn’t plastered to his side and it was just the two of him, he took a minute to breathe him in. Although the drug in his system was screwing with Stiles’ chemical makeup, he didn’t seem to be in any pain. In fact, the closer he looked, the more he realized the dazed look on Stiles’ face was one of bliss. 

“Mmmm,” Stiles responded. 

“How are you feeling?” Derek asked softly. He was still just standing there like an idiot, but he couldn’t seem to do anything but stand and stare at Stiles. 

“Jaw’s heavy,” Stiles murmured. Derek realized then that he had no idea what the side effects were for whatever was coursing through Stiles’ veins. 

“I got you,” Derek murmured. He wanted to pull out his phone and search it up, but he was more concerned about leaving Stiles alone. “Are you sleepy?”

Stiles stared at him, still smiling as if Derek had said something pleasant. 

“Wide awake.” 

Great. 

“Let’s watch a movie,” Stiles said after a moment. He kept touching his jaw, and Derek couldn’t help but reach out and touch it. Stiles immediately dropped his head back, which made Derek grab his hand back.

“Does it hurt?”

“Mmm. No, it’s nice,” Stiles said. He sounded sincere, despite his racing pulse which was throwing all of Derek’s usual indicators off. That was the thing, Stiles seemed fine—happy even, but just  _ off _ . 

“I’ll put on a movie. Any requests.”

Stiles shrugged so Derek pulled up the first thing on Netflix, which happened to be Jurassic Park. Stiles made no complaint, so he let it play while he pulled up his phone to look up Molly. 

After an hour, Derek felt pretty confident he didn’t need to take Stiles to the hospital. He’d seemed content to watch the movie, barely even paying attention to Derek. His euphoria and dazed expression made sense as well as the unintentional jaw clenching. Derek counted himself lucky for the time being. 

All he could do was brace himself for the morning. For the aftereffects. 

. . .

Derek was too worried to let Stiles go to sleep, so they watched The Lost World and the new remake with Chris Pratt. It was 4:00 AM before Derek’s eyes were beginning to feel like sand. He didn’t even realize he fell asleep until the next morning when the sun began to peak through the living room’s blinds. 

Stiles’ was slumped next to him, his neck hanging at an awkward angle that was sure to leave him sore. Derek was just glad to see him resting. He slipped his arms under the deadweight that was Stiles and carried him to his bed. The clock on his bedside read 7:20 AM. 

He wanted to hover, to brush the hair that had grown a little too long away from Stiles’ forehead, but he didn’t. He had to be careful. This wasn’t permanent. This wasn’t even temporary. This was Stiles’ emergency contact. Derek sighed and wandered off to the kitchen to make coffee and go over some case work. There wasn’t a chance he was falling back asleep. 

. . .

Stiles slept in late, not wandering out of the bedroom until noon. Derek glanced up from the paper he was reading and watched the younger man with cautious eyes, waiting for the fallout. It didn’t come. Instead, Stiles stretched and yawned, grimacing as he sniffed under his armpit. 

“Can I use your shower?” he croaked out. 

Derek nodded mutely and pointed to the bathroom. Stiles grunted and disappeared, gently closing the door behind him. 

When he emerged, he looked a little more awake, but there was something heavy in his gaze that wasn’t there before. He shuffled and sat across from Derek at the table. 

“Breakfast?” he asked hopefully. Finally, he looked Derek in the eyes and Derek could immediately tell they weren’t going to talk about it, at least not right now. Stiles had this fragile quality about him that rubbed Derek the wrong way. Even when Stiles was sharp and stinging, he seemed sure of himself, even if it was chaotically so. 

“You still like omelettes?” Derek asked. 

Stiles nodded gratefully and all but slumped in his chair. They ate quietly together. Derek kept almost asking, but couldn’t get the words out. He didn’t want to say anything that might upset him. He didn’t want Stiles to leave. 

Stiles seemed content with the silence. 

Things were fine until Stiles finished his food and stood up to bring it to the sink. Derek had begun washing up at the sink and reached out to take it from Stiles, but Stiles loosened his grip too soon and the dish went crashing to the floor. Stiles jumped back as it broke into three major ceramic pieces. He tossed them into the garbage and turned to Stiles. 

“That saves me some washing,” he joked, but the smile fell off of his face when he saw Stiles’ horrified expression.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles stuttered. 

“It’s okay,” he soothed. Stiles’ heartbeat had skyrocketed, and Derek fumbled for words that would make it slow. “Really, they’re from IKEA. I can always get more.” 

Stiles shook his head..

“I just…I didn’t mean to break it.” His voice was so small. Derek couldn’t help but reach out to place a gentle hand on Stiles arm. 

“It’s okay Stiles. I’m not mad.” He tried to get the other man to look at him, but Stiles was staring at the floor. Derek grabbed his other arm, and then Stiles looked up and oh, his eyes were watery.

“It’s okay,” Derek said again. 

Stiles shook his head and then he was crying.

Derek pulled him close and wrapped his arms around him, stroking his hair like Laura used to do for him. Clearly, his words were failing him. 

Stiles sobbed into his shoulder, and Derek wished the stupid drug was out of his system so he could get a better read on Stiles’ emotions. Right now, it was a tsunami of anger and sadness and a thousand other things; Derek wasn’t surprised Stiles was drowning in it. He knew something was brewing ever since Stiles wandered out of bed this morning, but the shock of seeing him cry felt like a punch to the stomach. 

“It’s okay,” Derek murmured. “I promise it will be okay.”

After a few breaths, Stiles’ breathing slowed and his heartbeat calmed. He pulled back and looked at Derek with red, puffy eyes. Derek was slightly caught off guard by the sudden urge to kiss the bags under Stiles’ eyes. He shoved it deep down inside of him.

“Are you okay?” He asked softly. 

Stiles took a shaky breath and started to nod his head, but aborted the motion and started shaking it. Still, he didn’t say anything. Derek opened his mouth to suggest they sit on the couch and talk, but then Stiles was moving closer and wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck and—

Stiles’ mouth was on Derek’s. It happened so fast that Derek could hardly process the warm, wet lips on his own. He couldn’t think of how the pressure was gentle, testing, almost not there and so, so sweet. Worst of all, he couldn’t get himself to respond. Couldn’t get himself to move. Couldn’t even think. 

The warmth was gone a moment later, and Stiles was pulling back, a brand new horrified expression fixed in place. 

“Oh my god,” Stiles choked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” 

Derek stared at him, too dazed to think of words. He reached out and touched his lip before he could think it through. 

“I’ll go. I’ll go. Oh god.” His face was all screwed up, and he looked as if he might cry again. This brought Derek out of his stupor. He moved forward even as Stiles started to scramble backwards. He backed him up until the backs of Stiles’ thighs were pressed against the edge of the sofa. He nearly stumbled and went tumbling but Derek grabbed his arm to steady him. 

“Stiles,” Derek said—this time he said it with force. Stiles’ flickering gaze finally focused, and Derek could see the fear in them. Even as his own heartbeat was beating erratically and his inner wolf howled with joy at what just happened, the more rational part of his brain stepped in. 

This wasn’t Stiles. Stiles didn’t want Derek like that. He just wanted comfort, and he was doing what he thought he had to get it. But Derek wouldn’t be like that. Wouldn’t be like Kate. Wouldn’t ever ask that of Stiles. 

“It’s okay. It’s okay. Don’t go..” 

“I should—” Stiles started but Derek shook his head firmly. 

“I want you to stay.” 

And then he pulled Stiles up into another crushing hug, and then Stiles was crying again, going all but boneless against him. After a while, Stiles started murmuring into his shoulder, so Derek pulled back a little. Stiles wiped his nose and blinked away some of his tears.

“I’m good now,” he croaked. He pulled back all the way until there was distance between them. Derek’s fingers twitched with the urge to pull him close again, but he kept his hands to himself. “Seriously. I don’t know what came over. I’m sorry,” he muttered the last part. 

“It’s fine,” Derek said sincerely, even as his gut dropped slightly. Of course he didn’t mean it. Stiles wouldn’t. He’d never. “As long as you’re okay.”

“I should go,” Stiles said, but he made no effort to move. Derek should let him be. Maybe this was already too much. Maybe he would’ve been better off at the health center or with a friend. Maybe Derek should’ve done something different— 

“You don’t have to go,” he said. 

“But I should.” He sounded so dejected that Derek wished he could read into whatever Stiles was thinking. His scent was still a swirl of chaos, so Derek resorted to struggling with his own words. 

“I’d like you to stay.”

This seemed to placate Stiles, and he nodded. 

“Okay,” he said at last. “I’ll stay.” Stiles squeezed Derek’s arm and for a moment, his inner voice quieted. 

. . .

The rest of the day passed without much excitement. Derek monitored him carefully, and they both tried to erase the almost-kiss from their minds. Or, at least Derek did. He couldn’t let it sit the way it was—like a rush of sweetness sitting in his ribcage, fluttering occasionally. He would pretend it hadn’t happened. It was already behind them. 

They watched more television and as the day passed, it seemed like Stiles was returning to his snarky self as his commentary grew sharper. They were both stretched out on the couch. They’d been watching reruns of Friends, and Stiles was pointing out plot holes when it had occurred to Derek— 

“I was thinking of getting takeout for dinner, what do you think? Is Thai still your favorite?”

Stiles hummed in agreement. 

“I can get takeout from that place down the block.”

Stiles didn't look up. “Just order in,” he said after a moment.

“They don’t deliver.”

“Somewhere else then,” Stiles suggested. 

“It’s fine. It’s not that far. I won’t even have to take my car,” Derek brushed it off. Honestly, it would be good for him to take a moment to get a breath of fresh air. Stiles’ scent has all but returned to normal and it’s filling up the apartment, soaking into the air, making Derek feel all soft and warm inside, and he doesn't want to get used to it—he  _ couldn’t  _ get used to it. 

“No, I don’t want it.”

“But it’s your favorite, and I really don’t—”

“Derek.” A hand circled his wrist, distracting him from the menu he’d been scrolling through on his phone. Stiles fixed him with a heavy stare and said in a low voice, “Don’t go.” 

Derek swallowed and let the phone slip through his fingers. 

“Okay,” he agreed. “I’ll order in.”

Stiles nodded slowly and then turned back to the television. Derek did his best imitation of a normal person and tried to not stare at Stiles’ face. He tried not to pick through the raging emotions the man next to him was emitting. 

He ordered Indian from across town and gave the delivery man at the door a large tip. When the meal was finished, and the light had seeped out of the apartment as the sun dipped in the sky, Derek was surprised to find Stiles rummaging in his bedroom, searching for clothes. 

“Do you mind if I borrow some pajamas?” He asked, voice laced with exhaustion. Stiles looked up when he didn’t respond immediately, and so he nodded.

Derek wasn’t really sure what was happening until Stiles was yawning and climbing into his bed, asking him if it was alright if he turned the lights off. It was just past 10:00 PM. 

“S’okay if I turn the lights off?”

Derek still couldn’t find the words. He nodded, and Stiles shut off the lamp on the small bedside table and they were engulfed in darkness. Derek lied next to him, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Stiles to suddenly rip the sheets away and storm off, but it didn’t happen. 

Twenty minutes later, Stiles turned to him, eyes still open. 

“Can you hold me?”

Derek said nothing, but he opened his arms and Stiles sunk right into his embrace. 

Derek wondered how he would ever sleep when his heart rate was only continuing to climb, but then Stiles’ breathing slowed as he drifted off to sleep and the steady sound of it echoed in Derek’s ears until it was all he could hear, and he too, drifted off. 

. . .

Based on Stiles’ scent, the drug has mostly made its way out of his system by the next day. Stiles’ remained clingy in the morning, all but refusing to let Derek leave the bed. Derek managed to detangle them and watched fondly as Stiles grumbled but then promptly fell back asleep. 

He slipped out of the apartment and headed to a closeby bakery. It was still early. It was Sunday, so maybe Stiles would be okay with going out to a cafe so they could both get some work done. He’d probably have to stop by his dorm to change. early in the morning to get them coffee, mentally planning the day. 

He ordered his usual cold brew, a sickeningly sweet mocha for Stiles, and a few danishes. When he opened the door to the apartment, the pleasant scent of Stiles engulfed him and Derek closed his eyes and basked in it for just a moment.  _ Home _ , his inner wolf insisted in a way it never had before. He took another moment to appreciate it before he called out. 

“Stiles. Coffee’s here!” 

A pause. No response came. Derek set the coffee and pastries down at the dining room table and wandered over to the bedroom, ready to rouse Stiles awake, but stopped in the doorway when he saw the bed made and empty. He looked around the apartment, but there was no note. No text on his phone. The only thing that marked Stiles’ presence was his overwhelming scent and that the spare key hanging on the hook next to his door was missing. Stiles must have taken it to lock up on the way out. 

Derek stood in the kitchen and told himself that it’s better this way. If he threw away the mocha with a little more force than necessary, well, no one needed to know. He didn’t even know if Stiles still drank mochas. He’d just assumed. He’d just thought they would’ve sat down like yesterday and had breakfast together. 

Derek shook his head. He shouldn’t ask for more. He shouldn’t build up expectations. He wasn’t in SF to have expectations. He wasn’t here to live out some sort of fantasy. 

After the moment passed, he trashed the danishes as well. He blasted music through his headphones and cleaned his apartment so thoroughly that any trace of Stiles is gone. 

It’s better this way, he thought, not to get too comfortable. 

. . .

It was Stiles who found Derek next. He was at the same cafe, working on a project when Stiles plopped down in the seat next to him. Stiles wordlessly slid the spare key across the table. Derek stared at it. 

“Keep it,” he said after a moment. “You can use it if I’m not home next time.”

“There isn’t going to be a next time,” Stiles said. There was a familiar edge to his voice, one that Derek hadn’t realized had been missing last weekend until he recognized it now. 

Derek shrugged, going for nonchalant. “Keep it anyway.”

“I don’t want it,” Stiles said evenly. 

“Well at least promise me you’re going to stop doing everything that someone hands to you.”

Anger flashed across Stiles’ face and Derek knew he said the wrong thing.

“Are you saying what happened is my fault?”

“No,” Derek sighed. “I’m saying I don’t want it to happen again.”

“You don’t get a say in what I do or don’t do.”

Derek eyed Stiles. He wished he could smooth out the stiff line of his shoulders, at least enough to ask him what had happened, to ask him what had gone wrong. He didn’t do that.

“Believe it or not, I’m really not trying to control your life,” he said.

Stiles still looked pretty strung out. He looked better than when Derek last saw him, but the bags under his eyes were still shades darker than they should have been. 

“But you have to promise me not to take whatever that was again. The partying and drinking is fine. That’s your choice. Just, please promise me. Do what you want, but don’t do that.”

Stiles looked away from him then. The light from outside catches his eyes in such a way that it turned the brown into liquid gold. It always made him look ethereal with his pale and mole-speckled skin. Finally, he nodded slowly. 

“I won’t,” he said dully. 

Derek drew his finger over the key. “Promise me.” 

Stiles turned to him then, and he swore the dead look in Stiles’ eyes would haunt him for the rest of his life. 

“I promise.”

Slowly, Stiles turned away. He left without another word, and Derek waited until he was out the door before he closed his fist around the spare key and slipped it into his pocket. 

. . .

The Sheriff came to visit over the summer, and Derek didn’t want to betray Stiles, but then the Sheriff offhandedly mentioned that Stiles told him about the drug incident. The Sheriff believed Stiles that it wasn’t his fault, because otherwise Stiles wouldn’t have told him in the first place. 

They’d met for coffee in that same coffee while Stiles was on campus filling out paperwork for his summer job he’d gotten at the law school. 

“He’s out in the world and I can’t protect him. I don’t want to think about what would have happened if you weren’t there,” Sheriff said gravely, sipping his steaming coffee. 

“He would have been fine,” Derek responded because anything else was too painful to think about. 

Stiles’ father wasn't convinced. His brows were furrowed and despite how he’d ditched the cane, there was still something heavy about him—something aged. Derek could tell he was working his way up to something. He just wasn’t sure what it was until The Sheriff set his coffee down and spoke. 

“Stiles needs a place for next year. Can you—Would you mind? He might not agree at first but…” He railed off, but Derek understood. It seemed neither of them were much for words. 

“Of course,” Derek agreed almost immediately. 

. . .

Derek didn't mean to overhear the conversation. Like most things in Derek’s life, this must have been some sort of strange coincidence Fate had arranged for her amusement. He was getting coffee at the cafe outside the university’s law building when he heard the tinny sound of the Sheriff breaking through a cell phone speaker. 

“Stiles, I’m not paying for it.”

“Dad, I’m not asking you to pay for it. I’ll pay for it.”

“With what money? Stiles, I’m not trying to be harsh, but after the dorms, this is the best option.”

“For who? And since when do you trust Derek Hale?”

“He needs a roommate anyhow. I don’t see the downside?”

“The downside. Are you serious? I am fine living alone.”

“We can’t afford it.”

“I’ll find a roommate then.”

“Stiles,” his father sighed at last. “These are my terms. If you don’t like them you can come home and finish your schooling at BHCC.”

“You’re serious,” Stiles muttered. 

“I’m not asking for a lot. Hell, I’m not even asking you to come back to Beacon Hills. I’m letting you take your time to figure out whatever you need, but I’m not leaving you by yourself.” 

“And why him? What does he have to do with this?”

“He needs a housemate.”

“Oh my god, this is ridiculous.”

“So you agree?”

“Fine, yes. I’ll live with him.” 

Derek waited until Stiles’ footsteps were a distant echo before he rounded the corner. His coffee had gone cold, but something sweet and light had blossomed in his chest despite himself. 

. . .

Stiles hated living with Derek. At first he was awkward if not a little flustered, perhaps remembering the last time he was at Derek’s place. He didn’t bring much with him, but after the first few weeks Derek could feel a tangible difference. The apartment smelled better, felt warmer, seemed brighter. He couldn’t put it into words even if he tried, but he tried not to bask in it too much. 

Stiles grew out of being flustered and into spiteful in due time. Derek didn’t rise to the bait, not like he would have back in Beacon Hills. He met Stiles where he was at and hoped that the rageful teen would eventually come out of his anger. That was his first mistake, because Stiles seemed Derek’s ability to not rise to his bait as some sort of challenge. 

That’s when the partying began in earnest. That’s when the bottles under Stiles’ bed grew. That’s when the distance between them became an almost tangible thing. When Derek turned into a someone Stiles could barely stare at without glaring. 

. . .

That’s what brought him to this moment. Stiles, with his eyes closed and a trembling expression as if he might cry at any moment—Derek stroking his cheek and wishing he’d said the right thing, asked the right question, anything to change this. 

“Just stop, It’s not worth it,” Stiles mutters. “It’s not worth it.”

“Stiles,” Derek says. “Don’t say that.” Derek struggles with the words even as they’re forming. There’s so much he wants to say to the other man. So much he’s always failed to say to him. So much he’ll continue to fail to say. They can’t go on like this. Something has to give. 

“Stiles,” Derek begs, but his window has shut. Stiles is fast asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you can think of any more relevant tags! Comments and kudos always appreciated! :0


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